Melodies of a Maniacal Man
by LoveOfLiterature
Summary: Series of one-shots centered on the Joker and his attempts to gain a certain Bat's attention...which include gang wars, home visits, weapon pleasuring, and fond memories to tide over frustrating arousal. Warning: M/M B/J slash, Lots of blood and cursing
1. Weapons of Mass Seduction

**Summary: Joker appreciates his weapon. **

**So I actually **_**did**_** write another fic. Just one more stanza to go before I have a complete set. This story is, erm, I don't even know what it is. And I think of it as set before the Joker ever meets the Batman…sort of an initial screening (what? Another pun?) and reaction.**

**Note: This story was supposed to be the first one posted. I only just wrote it yesterday, though. If I can, I will put it in the correct order.  
**

**Disclaimer is on the 'first chapter'. **

**Rated M for violence, cursing, and adult themes with a weapon**

_What a beautiful face  
I have found in this place  
That is circling all round the sun  
What a beautiful dream  
That could flash on the screen  
In a blink of an eye and be gone from me  
Soft and sweet  
Let me hold it close and keep it here with me, me  
_

"And tonight on the news, local crime is down 35% as the elusive Batman continues his…" _Click_. "But is this Batman someone we should be looking up to? What kind of city…" _Click_. "We can't deny that when that light is on in the sky…" _Click_. "Exclusively tonight we have a picture of the Ba…" _Click_. Wait, what? _Click_. "…as seen from an eyewitness's cell phone. Stay tuned for the exclusive photo when we return from these messages."

The Joker can't help himself. He leans forward in his dry rotted La-Z-Boy, plants his feet on the ground, and laces his fingers together excitedly, placing his elbows on his knees and planting his chin on top. The tiny, fuzzy television begins to shake violently through the commercials. Odd. The crazed man looks down at the ground to see if there is an earthquake, only to find his knees jiggling in pent up excitement, rattling his arms and head in the process.

"Ahahaheehaha," his laugh is loud and screeching, and lasts for several minutes. The only thing to bring him back down is the announcement that the show is starting again. Two smiling figures look at him with their glassy eyes and white teeth. He wonders how long it takes those two _things_ to look like that, and bets that he could pull out their eyes and teeth in a shorter time. He's pretty good like that.

"You can see it here tonight, folks. For the first time ever, an eyewitness has been able to get a picture of the infamous Batman!" the female smiles, looking at Joker through the screen and then back at her partner. The pair's eyes meet, and then the male is looking at Joker. "Now as we show this, remember that it was night when the photo was taken on a low quality phone camera…"

And his voice is drifting off behind Joker's psyche because the picture is taking up the entire screen. It's grainy and fuzzy and blurred. The Batman was obviously on the move when this shot was snapped. But his face is just visible and his jaw is strong and set and unsmiling. And his eyes are flashing and bright against the black makeup surrounding them.

And Joker's in love.

Well, not _love_ love. But there's a spark. He figures he should be pissed. Here is a man who's obviously as fucked up as he is, if not more so, stealing his limelight and action. The Jester has been scanning channels _all evening_ trying to find any headlines about himself, and all he's heard and seen is Batman _this_ and Batman _that_. And yes, he's a little pissed. He'll need to go out and meet this Batman, and soon.

But just look at him. It's magnificent, really. What kind of crazy world would gift wrap and deliver a perfect juxtaposition to him, the Joker? And Joker really loves gifts. Especially dangerous ones. And this man is dangerous. Takes one to know one, you see. But a completely different kind of dangerous. Batman is hurting people, but only a certain kind of people. People similar to the Joker in varying degrees.

And Joker wants to hurt the Batman. He suspects that he will feel no greater pleasure than to put his hands on that dark, shadowy, masked man. Yes, he needs to meet him. But how? He's been pulling jobs in this city for weeks and has never seen the vigilante. It's time to get creative. It's time to _perform_…

He leans back in his fading chair once more and crosses one leg over the other, pulling his gun from his pocket for easier leverage and feeling the weight of it on his hand. Weapons always help him think. The picture is gone from the screen and the voices are droning on again. He pulls the trigger and the flag pops out, hanging limply from its pole. _Bang_. Another pull of the trigger and it's speared into the center of the sparking screen. Ah, that's better.

Now surrounded with darkness and silence, Joker takes on the task more fully. He brings his gun filled hand up to the side of his head to lean against it. He'd have to arrange a foolproof way to get the Bat to meet him, but _how_? He scratches his chin with the barrel of the gun and lets his mind go blank at the feel of the cold metal against his chin. His tongue swipes out to wet his lips and he's greeted with the shock of the cold metal taste of his weapon.

His weapon.

That's it! He needs to announce his crimes! Like his gun announces its shots. He would voice his next crime over the radio. That would be good; obscure but insistent. Like the Batman.

The Prince nuzzles his gun in appreciation for its assistance and smells the earthy, zangy smell of powder and metal and death. His tongue swipes out again in reaction to his elevated heartbeat and touches the tip of the barrel again. Hmmm. He lets his tongue run around the entire entrance of the barrel before running languidly down the entire length of the metal pipe and back up again. Without thought, he engulfs the entire entrance of the weapon into his mouth to moisten it.

He closes his eyes and sees a grainy dark figure with flashing eyes similar to his own, but different.

The barrel is wet; saliva is escaping his lips' seal and running down the weapon and his own chin. He pushes the weapon further into his mouth to catch up the loosed liquid, and the sight at the tip catches the back of his throat, causing him to gag. He pulls it back out and to the tip again on reflex, but draws it back into his mouth again out of spite. The gun forgot that he _likes_ it rough. Gagging him won't deter what's _coming_ to it. He laughs from the back of his throat, a growling, rumbling sound that travels up the shaft of the weapon and tickles his lips.

The sensation finally forces him to drop the weapon to his lap until the strange tingling disappears. He's huffing and frustrated and _excited_, and as soon as the feeling is gone he shoves the gun's barrel back down his throat and snaps his eyes closed until it hurts, and he's pumping the gun in and out of his mouth, back and forth over his tongue, into and out of his throat. And he doesn't gag again. No. Fool me once shame on you. Fool me twice and I'll cut your eyes out and make you wear them as earrings.

His jaw is hurting from the violence of the motions and his teeth are rattling from the contact with the metal, but his gun is so _close_. He can _feel_ it. It's going to cum any _second_ now. Hell, it just cocked. Pride swells in him as his finger slowly presses against the trigger of his weapon.

"Boss, you wanted to…"

Joker's eyes fly open and he's staring at his henchman wildly, angrily. The gun's still in his mouth, but his finger moves away from the trigger and warm but cooling spit is dribbling down the handle and into his grip. It smells even more metallic now. His gun is angry.

_Bang_.

Joker slumps back into his chair and eyes the dead man disapprovingly. _He_ wanted to get the gun off, not some nameless, useless henchman. Oh well. Passion is passion. And something is tickling at the back of his brain. On impulse, he leaps out of his chair and saunters over to the corpse. Blood is pooling and seems to be dripping through the floorboards already. He won't be bothered again. His crew seems to shy away on evenings when blood rains down on their beds.

An outstretched arm clasps a crumpled bit of paper. The madman snatches it up and peers at the scrawled handwriting:

_Friday 18th: 9 pm_

_Gotham City Radio Tower_

_Mic, copper wire, cotton balls_

Oh yeah. He's already formed this plan last night. His guy was here to give the confirmation list with required materials. He even knows what his crime is going to be. It's all ready. He turns an appreciative eye towards his guy and tips his hat. "Great job, Freddie. You're going places; I can tell! Ahahahheehahahaheehaha…"

Downstairs a man fumbles over to his bed and upturns his rough blanket. There's a puddle of blood where his chest would be on the lumpy mattress. He warily eyes the ceiling; blood is dripping regularly. "Goddammit…" he mumbles, and grabs his pillow to stomp off to another corner to sleep.

**Ba Bum Ba Boosh! lol. So this features a little less Bat, but I think that's okay in this instance. Oh Joker, you really need to write down your important dates on a calendar, like me. As the saying goes, smarter not harder. **

**And I make no apologies for my gun masturbation (or is it?)! This is what I wrote; can you imagine what goes on in my head? hahaha I wanted Bats to be holding the gun, but he doesn't approve of guns, so I had to go another route. I like it. **

**One possible story left. Will I actually write it?**


	2. Playmate at Wayne Mansion

**Summary: Joker pays his favorite archenemy a house visit.  
**

**This fic will be a series of ****unrelated one-shots****; all centered on the Joker. **

_**Disclaimer:**_** I do not own the Batman characters in any way, shape, or form…though I do own an archived version of the first comics, the game **_**Arkham Asylum**_**, and an intense love for all things Batman. Please don't hate (or sue) me. **

**Also, the lyrics sections that I use to open each story are from Neutral Milk Hotel's **_**Aeroplane Over the Sea**_**. (You should definitely take a look at their album!) I don't own any of that either. I just have an un-copyrighted love.**

**P.S. This is m/m slash. If you do not like that sort of thing then do not read this. Most of my work will mostly be implied or hinted, but I know there will be at least ONE story posted to this that is very much an M rating. It is already written and WILL be posted. Again, do not like then please do not read. If you DO want to brave it, I will explicitly post a warning for the porn chapter, as I love to call it, when I post it. **

**This chapter is rated T, mostly for swearing...mostly.  
**

_And one day we will die  
And our ashes will fly from the aeroplane over the sea  
But for now we are young  
Let us lay in the sun  
And count every beautiful thing we can see  
Love to be  
In the arms of all I'm keeping here with me, me  
_

"Bruce."

The door is almost slammed in his face, but the Joker deftly slips a few digits between the hard wood, breaking them but accomplishing his goal. Win. The billionaire quickly reopens the large wooden barrier at the sound of a few distinct and simultaneous crunches. The raven haired man is looking down at the as-of-yet unmoved fingers, twisted and purpling on his door frame, in absolute horror. Another win.

Joker doesn't see his own fingers. He sees the man's eyes. They are blue. Very blue. They would clash horribly with the Jester's wardrobe. He sees the man's hair. It is black. Very black. It would look superb running down his belly button and into his pants. Or twisted in the Joker's fingers while being forced against the wall and beaten. He sees the man's skin, flushed cheeks and paling face, but his neck is tan. Very tan. Probably like the rest of his body. It could be improved by being stripped of clothes to show the purple and green welts that must be present. His love marks.

Finally, the young philanthropist focuses back on the problem at large, and their eyes meet, both in a not-so-secret challenge. "What do you want?" Bruce grinds between his teeth. The Joker can tell this man is not used to addressing him in his "socialite" voice. A wide grin forms immediately on his thin features.

"I want to play, Brucey."

"I'll call the police if you do not leave immediately."

This earns a cackle. Oh what fun this man is! How precious! The laughter echoes down the hallway behind the rich man as the Joker slides his foot across the threshold and clasps Bruce's shoulder with his mangled hand. The pain brings him back. His lips threaten to betray him again when he sees the dull horror in the man's eyes as he gazes at the hand on his shoulder. "Now, _Batsy_, why would you need the police?" he purrs.

Horror changes to shock, which changes to suspicion, and finally a defeated acceptance. All gorgeous on his features. If only pain had been there, too. "I don't know what you're talking about," Bruce growls in a last ditch effort. No. Not this old game.

Joker rolls his eyes with a frustrated bark and pushed his new toy back into the house with both hands, before closing the door behind them both. "Now shush, Mr. Wayne. We both know that we are _both_ too good for that," the Jester tuts, slipping a blade easily into his uninjured hand and holding it to the other man's throat.

A new, serious expression glides onto the madman's features as he tilts his head to gather all of the relevant angles of his rival's face. The solid jaw is locked in an uncompromising scowl and the crystal eyes are sternly looking upon his own features. Yes, this is _his_ man. Ballsy, unafraid, and stern. The eyes sing the truth, loud and clear. "Ahhh, there you are," he whispers, and wants to melt into the frame of the man in front of him.

"What do you want?"

Really, this guy is a broken record. A superficial grin plasters itself onto the Clown's face as he drags his eyes back up to his hostage's serious expression. "You really need to get your hearing checked, Mister," Joker remarks sarcastically, "I want to play." _And you will play with me_. Any further conversation is abruptly halted when steps are heard from a distant room down the hallway, causing the billionaire to tense and wrap both large hands around each of the Joker's thin wrists.

"Okay, I'll play with you," Bruce hisses, "but come with me somewhere where we will not be interrupted." His eyes are darting from the crazy face in front of him to the unseen presence down the hallway and back in rapid succession. The Joker can almost see the man willing the presence to stay where it is. The superficial grin turns into a true smirk of delight, and he loosens his hold on his playmate, dipping down into a partial bow and extending his arm in a 'ladies first' fashion. The blade extending the length of his outstretched arm, further emphasizing his own long limbs.

Without remark or hesitation Bruce moves into the nearest room out of sight of the hallway, seemingly unheeding of the madman and his blade at his back. To the Joker's surprise, he does not stop when they enter the room, but walks directly over to the farthest wall and applies enough pressure to open a door in the wallpaper. The Joker is giddy, and follows without hesitation. This continues for another five consecutive rooms before the pair exit into what appears to be a arboretum. It's hot and sticky and the Joker is glad when his companion takes him to a door leading to an outside garden.

Then the sun hits him and he has to turn away from its damaging rays. The central focus of the mansion is farther away than he had expected. Bruce must have lead him to the most secluded area that the grounds have to offer. Another self-satisfied smirk creeps onto his face as he squints at the house. The blade is not doing much for protecting his eyes from the sun.

"Alright, before I play your game, how do you know who I am?" a voice from behind him asks. There is a distinct lack of gravel and confidence that the Jester finds disquieting. It's too much. He ignores the questions and saunters over to the largest tree nearby, plopping down in its shade before he decides that the voice can be properly answered.

His Bat is still standing out in the sun, large hands on his well-tailored hips, glaring down at the Joker. The initial shock is gone and the tan is very apparent now. The Prince giggles at the pain behind his eyes and the very grandfatherly pose his rival is holding. "Silly, I've known _forever_. Who else has the money or the _eyes_?" He gives this very obvious information time to sink into his thick skulled mate. Really…there is nothing to be done, really. Bruce seems to come to the same conclusion, because his shoulders slump and he lets out a very long breath. The Joker wonders how that hot breath would feel on his, ahem, blade.

"What do you want to play?" the deep voice of his counterpart finally huffs, sitting himself cross-legged in the grass where he was previously standing. In the dreadful dreadful sun. Joker narrows his eyes, but lets a laugh ring from his body at the wily ways of the Batman. What a tease he is. Even in socialite form. Another laugh erupts at the thought of Batman taking different forms, perhaps with the aid of a gaudy ring. It takes a few minutes to compose himself. He _does_ have a goal here.

Really.

The giggling finally tapering off, the Joker arranges his features into the mournful gape of a broken man. "Well _Batman_, I want a game of pretend," he groans, lolling his head around his neck before it connects suddenly with the trunk of the tree he has settled against. The shock of pain excites a single shouted laugh before he is again the tortured man. "I want to pretend that you can _**save**_ me. I want to pretend that you _care_, and that I _feel_." The pain is now a dull ache, so the Jester spares a moment to look across the yard at his playmate.

Who looks singularly unimpressed.

"You see…" a swipe of tongue over roughened lips, "You see, you see you see…I am damaged goods…" On a whim Joker rips his (very expensive) vest open, buttons flying into the grass surrounding his shadowy sanctuary. He drops the other three knives from his sleeves, pulls the two grenades from his pants, and carelessly slips the gun from his suspenders to hold it against his own head. "…And no one can fix me. But. Let's pretend that you can. What can you _do_ for me, Bruce?"

The man in the sun is up on his knees, eyes fixed on the gun against the messy mop of green hair. His arms are raised in an entreating posture, outstretched, hands wide and yielding. "Joker, don't. Let me help you."

The smaller, shaded man lowers the gun into his lap, pointing it casually up towards his head. His eyes are wide and his mouth scrunches into an unusual pout. Joker tilts his head, nearly letting it fall onto his shoulder, "How?"

This time it is Bruce's turn to lick his lips. He shuffles slowly towards the tree; the grass stains will never come out of these $700 pants and he doesn't think twice. "I'll get you help. I have a friend, a doctor. He can…"

"_Wrong_!" Joker shrieks, "_That's not the game I'm playing_!" Before the dark headed man can make another move he pulls the trigger. There is a sharp crack as the hammer snaps back into place. BANG. The smell of gunpowder wafts over the yard as the flag proudly flaps in the lightest of winds from the barrel of the gun. Joker looks curiously down at the barrel, the flag is several inches from his head. "Huh." Shrugging, he clicks the hammer back to cock it once more.

"What the fuck?" Bruce is up and stalking towards the deranged clown. Without any preamble he snaps the gun from out of the Joker's hands and tosses it aside towards the woods. It fires with a loud CRACK when it lands. A tree shivers at the edge of the wood from the contact with the slug. Bruce doesn't pay any attention; he is too busy gripping the Joker's shoulders firmly and shaking him. "What is wrong with you? Yes, Joker, you are _fucked up_! But you know what? So is everyone else! You can't just kill people and hurt others. You can't just aim a gun at your head and pull the trigger! Christ!"

Abruptly the man lets go and stalks back across the yard to where he previously sat, plopping down and putting his palm to his head. A headache is forming quickly. The giggling that had abruptly began when he finished his outburst isn't helping either.

"Ahahaha can't I? I can't…ahahahahaha! Look at me Bats!" the Joker wails. He's curling in on himself, but straightens his form out enough to dislodge the rest of his vest, letting it fall to the roots below him. The scars are littered over his ghostly body and it's horrific. He knows it. It's what makes him _him_. The purple welts, green bruises, and lightly pinked scars are his _inspiration_. Tell him he can't. Ha! "_Look at me_!"

Tired eyes slide away from a protecting palm. The billionaire surveys the sight before him, but Joker doesn't see the disgust he only ever sees, the horror of the truth being told, the shock. He sees sadness creep onto the features. Not the pitying sadness that has earned more than one bullet to the brain or blade across the throat, but the pain of recognition. Then the Batman does the last thing that the Jester would have ever guessed.

He unbuttons his shirt and lets it fall to the ground as well.

It's not the _same_ same. But it is. The colors are darker from the tanned flesh, but the welts and bruising is all the same. There are bite marks, too. Jealousy swells within the clown, and he's up, running towards his counterpart and tackling him into the grass with a scream. He is running his thumb over the bite marks that pock the incredibly fit body that flexes and stiffens under his grungy touch. He wonders if the Batman could wrap both hands around his waist and touch his fingers together. His hands _are_ large. And you know what they say about men with large hands.

"They need large gloves," the Joker shrieks, bursting into a sobbing laughter before falling against the firm body and shaking with joyless amusement. It takes several minutes of shaking before he even realizes that the body below him hasn't moved. They are just laying in the grass and sunshine together, two broken men who happened to take two different paths and still end up in one garden lawn. Broken together.

Knowing the moment will be over soon, the clown lifts his head and surveys the skin closest to his range of sight at the moment. Before he can help himself, his fingers are walking across the tan, littered chest, dancing a finger tap dance over the injuries and counting them all. Every last goddamned stunning one of them.

"Joker…" Bruce finally exhales.

"Shush Batsy. I won't tell. I'll _never_ tell. You delivered and you didn't disappoint. Why would I tattle on my favorite Bat? Haven't yet…" the Harlequin replies. In a few minutes he'll use his palm tack to knock his rival out cold and make his escape. In a few minutes. But for now he'll just lay in the horrid sun and count the beautiful things he sees.

**I would like to note that I really want to represent ALL aspects of the Joker. When I see him in my mind I will always see the skinny, lanky, bleached skin man from the comics. But. I really love TDK representation as well. That is the beauty of the character I think. There are so many version to work with. So I guess what I am trying to say is be ready for Joker whiplash. I am really trying to play around with his character to find my favorite style...**

**Also, this SHOULD have been the second story posted, but i haven't gotten around to the first and got antsy. The "first one" will be posted eventually...maybe. The 3rd and 4th ones are written, though. =D  
**


	3. The Musical Message of Mayhem

**Summary: Joker makes sweet music to his Bat…and finds he doesn't like **_**ALL**_** green things.**

**Short story is short…but one of my favorite to write! This was the first one I **_**did**_** write actually. And remember, these are unrelated! **

**Disclaimer is on the now second 'chapter'. Oh, and I realize a few of the words in the lyrics is wrong, but that's what it sounded like to me when I was struck with my inspiration so I kept the incorrect version for this fic.**

**Rated T for violence and mature content. This **_**is**_** the Joker…**

_What a curious life we have found here tonight  
There is music that sounds from the street  
There are lights in the clouds  
And his ghost all around  
Hear the voice as it's rolling and ringing through me  
Soft and sweet  
How the notes all bend and reach above the trees, trees  
_

The night sky blinks and winks with flashes of sudden light as the sounds of automatic weaponry explode in a frenzy of new cords. Anyone who cannot see the opera of the moment has to be mad. It is almost the most beautiful thing in all of creation. And all it had taken was one child plopped into local gang territory and a hushed tip-off to the police of a kidnapping.

Joker ponders the bizarre experience of calling in his own crime to the police and giggles for minutes until he nearly tips himself backwards from his already precarious perch. He sits comfortably in an old lawn chair up on one of the higher fire-escapes watching the orchestra of weaponry and slaughter, long legs propped gracefully up on the railing at an angle so he can watch the show in perfect comfort. The dead body from within the old apartment he has taken up hasn't even started stinking yet.

A pause in the music of death gives the Prince a chance to glance skywards carelessly as if he doesn't want anyone to see him gazing towards the clouds. Like it is a sign of weakness, or like he is checking the time for a particularly late date that one still has hope for showing up. A snort escapes from the Clown's mouth at that particular thought before he is able to cover the mistake with his gloved hands. It wouldn't be any fun if the blue coats spotted him now.

The cracking and popping of the firearms soon start back with a vengeance, sending the more obstinate birds that have yet to flee soaring into the sky from the trees in the park just a block away. The percussion of the moment mixes deliciously with the voices of agony that are becoming clearer to hear in the fray. Different voices are starting to mingle, with others gaining strength or falling out as their final breaths begin to leave their bodies. The Joker's face takes on a serene expression as he gazes up again into the sooty clouds that cover the moon, listening to the choir confirm his convictions below him in the most musical way.

Then he sees it and his heart-rate quickly doubles, then triples in pace.

Taking a quick, unconscious swipe of his tongue over his ruby lips, the Harlequin begins ruthlessly scanning the tops of buildings, windows, and streets below; orchestra completely forgotten and unheard. The flashing lights of the guns only seem to be an annoyance as his sharp green eyes scan every dark place within visual range; the bat signal ironically being the only trustworthy source of illumination. He wouldn't want to be rude and miss the appearance of the guest of honor.

The Joker hasn't survived so long on _only_ luck. He ignores a stray bullet that whizzes by his head as he leans forward for a better view of the surrounding area before huffing and glancing down in annoyance for just a moment at the floor of his balcony. A shadow moves in the glass at his feet that he had smashed on an instinctual whim earlier that evening.

The Batman.

Above him. Behind him.

About to tackle him to the ground and (try to) beat the living shit out of him.

Excitement threatens to overwhelm the Prince as he palms a blade from his sleeve. Heat and arousal pool into areas of his body that he has vehemently been able to ignore for as long as he can remember at the thrill of having his other half soon upon him. He hopes briefly that the Batman knows this is all for him. Always for him.

He leans back again, gracefully folding his arms together and propping his legs back up onto the railing. He fights with himself to not look over when a rustling flutter jolts the metal area to his left near the stairs, blocking the most effortless means of escape. Like he would try to escape now.

"Joker."

And that is all he can take.

The sound of his name from that growling voice is like a whisper compared to the lights and sounds coming from all around them. No one on this ball will ever hear the sound that was just uttered from the Batman's lips. No one except himself and the man who uttered it. The knowledge of that is just so…_personal_. This singular entity now sharing a perch with him, and who shares so many other things with only himself, has now just given him _one more thing_ that will only be between the two of them. Two halves of a whole.

Loud peals of laughter explode from the Clown as he accepts his new gift from his solemn counterpart. His other half. Even when he finally turns his head towards the caped crusader several moments later, tears are running down his cheeks from the mirth and ecstasy of that one tiny aspect of this whole god-forsaken rock.

He is still laughing when Batsy moves closer in a similar fashion to a person approaching a large wild animal that is ready to bite. The caped man's arms are out in a defensive posture as he steps closer to the laughing man. Really? Does he really think it's going to be that easy? Joker laughs a little harder as he carelessly lashes out at the Bat with his previously forgotten knife. In proper poetic fashion, the blade sticks between the plates and eases into the skin of his enemy's forearm like butter.

The hiss that forces its way between Batman's clenched teeth has the Joker out of his seat and breathing it into his own body. He steels a moment to look at the delectable pain shining in those crystal blue eyes; it darkens the hue. He wonders if other intense sensations darken the color of those eyes.

The knife is now protruding from the Bat's arm, and the Joker finally looks down at his handy work; another mark will be left on that mysterious body. By now there has to be scars, lesions, and bruises riddling that body; marked as his own. He wonders how the man explains away those marks to his lovers or family…or both.

No.

He cannot think about it. No one knows this man like he does. No one. No one has the _right_. He eyes the knife again, still jammed into the skin of his counterpart. That knife has no right, either. The Batman hasn't moved much between trying to decide how to get the knife out without possibly bleeding out and making sure the Joker doesn't add another. This doesn't cross the psychopath's mind as he lunges towards the offensive weapon trying to take his place in the mysterious man's soul.

All the Harlequin can do is let off a blood curdling scream before violently grasping the handle and heaving it out, all three inches, and grasping it with both hands. He's still screaming when he notices all of the blood still clinging to it, and pops his tongue out to lick the crimson plasma away, cutting his tongue and adding more. It only takes a moment to realize that his tongue will not clean the blade of its offensive share of _his_ Bat, so his grasps each side and snaps the flimsy metal in half and throws it to the floor of his perch.

His enemy broken, he takes a few heaving breaths before he breaks out into another round of victorious chortles. The Prince stomps on the pieces just to show it who's boss while the laughter continues and one palm drips blood onto the glass below his feet. It isn't until the bleeding stops that he realizes the music is gone, and looks down into the street he was previously watching. All eyes are upon him, staring in varying degrees of surprise and fear.

He lets his gaze slip into the shadows to find he is alone.

Well.

Giggling, he slips into the apartment and away from prying eyes. The fun is obviously over; it's time to scram.

**I have struggled with bringing Harley into one or two of these because I really love her…and non-consensual three-ways with her and my favorite boys. But I have decided to keep is simple. And Ivy would get jealous.**


End file.
